The MRT Museum

I stuff my ticket in my pocket and
let the strong tide of the rush hour carry
me along. There’s a struggle for balance —
knuckle-white grips on handles like lifelines
on a sea of suits and school uniforms.
The engine rumbles an artless croon; the
operator brusquely guides us through our
tour. There’s an elbow on my rib and a
suffocating heat, but I hold my breath
for the grand exhibition’s unveiling —
artifacts of life in bygone buildings;
microcosms within streets and alleys;
a sky nostalgic of a Classical
painting. I place my hand on the clear glass,
watching dear EDSA flit past my fingers.